Chapter 2 - Someone Inside My House
I stared at the photograph until rainwater ran down my face and into the collar of my coat.
Bruno was alive.
That was the first thing that mattered.
His head rested against gray concrete. There was something dark beneath his neck—maybe a blanket, maybe shadow. His eyes looked heavy, but they were open.
He wasn’t bleeding.
At least not anywhere I could see.
I enlarged the photograph.
Concrete floor.
Metal wall.
A thin yellow stripe in the background.
No window.
No recognizable landmark.
I saved the image and immediately forwarded it to Ethan Cole, a private investigator who had worked corporate security for my father before opening his own firm.
Then I called him.
He answered on the third ring.
“You’re supposed to be getting married next month,” he said.
“My dog was kidnapped.”
Silence.
“What?”
I told him everything.
Chicago.
Vivienne’s story.
Sofia.
The gate.
The clasp.
The photograph.
When I finished, Ethan said, “Don’t confront anybody.”
“I’m standing fifty yards from the woman who lied to me.”
“Exactly why you don’t confront anybody.”
“Bruno is alive.”
“For now.”
I hated those words.
Ethan continued, “If somebody sent a threat, they know you’re searching. That means they either have access to your property, your security system, or someone inside is feeding them information.”
“Vivienne.”
“Maybe.”
“She lied.”
“That makes her suspicious. It doesn’t tell us whether she planned it, helped somebody, or is covering something else.”
I looked at the mansion.
“Get here.”
“I’ll be there before midnight.”
I ended the call.
When I entered through the rear hallway, Vivienne was sitting in the living room with a glass of wine.
She looked up.
“Anything?”
I slipped the silver clasp into my pocket.
“No.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
That tiny movement told me more than her words.
“Nothing at all?”
“Wet footprints. Probably mine.”
She took a sip.
“I’m sorry.”
I watched her carefully.
“Maybe you were right.”
“About what?”
“Maybe he wandered.”
Her expression softened.
Too quickly.
“I know how much he meant to you.”
Meant.
Again.
Past tense.
I crossed the room and kissed her forehead.
She stiffened for a fraction of a second.
“Long flight,” I said. “I’m going upstairs.”
“Adrian?”
I turned.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
There had been a time when those words could disarm me.
That night, they sounded like evidence.
“I know.”
I went upstairs.
But I didn’t sleep.
At 11:48 p.m., Ethan entered through the garage.
He was forty-six, broad-shouldered, gray beginning at his temples, permanently dressed like someone expecting trouble.
I showed him the photograph.
He examined the metadata.
“Stripped.”
“Can you recover anything?”
“Maybe. Whoever sent this knew enough to remove location information.”
He looked at the clasp.
“This cut is clean.”
“Bolt cutters?”
“Possibly.”
Then he asked for access to the security system.
We entered the surveillance room.
I had cameras on every exterior approach and in the public hallways. None inside bedrooms, obviously, but enough coverage that moving a hundred-and-fifty-pound mastiff through the property should have been difficult.
Ethan pulled footage from the night Bruno disappeared.
9:52 p.m.
Bruno walked through the rear corridor.
10:03.
Bruno returned toward the kitchen.
10:07.
The camera feed froze.
10:16.
It resumed.
Nine minutes missing.
Ethan leaned forward.
“There.”
“What?”
“Not a malfunction.”
“How do you know?”
“Every camera didn’t fail. The recorder stopped receiving them.”
“Someone disabled it.”
“Someone with administrator access.”
My security administrator list contained three names.
Mine.
Caleb Shaw, my security director.
And one emergency access account.
Ethan opened the account history.
At 10:06 p.m., somebody logged in under Caleb’s credentials.
At 10:07, recording was suspended.
At 10:16, restored.
I pulled out my phone.
Ethan caught my wrist.
“No.”
“He works for me.”
“Then tomorrow you act like you know nothing.”
“You’re asking me to sit across from people who stole my dog.”
“I’m asking you to give us enough time to find him alive.”
That stopped me.
I sat back.
Ethan studied the gate log.
“Can you identify which remote opened it?”
“I thought all four used the same encrypted code.”
“They probably transmit individual device signatures.”
He typed.
A string of numbers appeared beside the 10:14 entry.
Remote 04.
The study remote.
The one that was supposed to be locked away.
We went downstairs.
The study safe was hidden behind a landscape painting.
I opened it.
Passport.
Property documents.
A few emergency cash envelopes.
And an empty slot where the remote belonged.
“It was here before Chicago,” I said.
“You sure?”
“I checked the safe before leaving.”
Ethan examined the locking mechanism.
“No forced entry.”
“Only I know the combination.”
“Who knows you know it?”
I looked at him.
He smiled without humor.
“People watch. Cameras. Reflections. Passwords reused. Fingerprints on frequently pressed keys. Never assume a secret stayed secret.”
I remembered something.
Two weeks earlier, Vivienne had walked into the study while I was opening the safe.
She’d been carrying wedding invitation samples.
I had turned away to speak with her.
For maybe ten seconds.
That would have been enough.
We closed the safe.
At midnight, I checked the unknown number again.
No response.
I typed:
I want proof he’s safe.
Nothing.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Then another image arrived.
This one showed Bruno standing.
Unsteady, but standing.
Behind him was a corrugated metal wall.
At the right edge of the picture was part of a man’s shoe.
Black leather.
Expensive.
I enlarged it.
Ethan whistled.
“What?”
“That’s not warehouse footwear.”
“So?”
“So whoever is holding your dog isn’t some random guy you paid to pressure a debtor.”
“I don’t do that.”
“I know. I’m making a point.”
He zoomed tighter.
A distinctive silver buckle crossed the shoe.
I recognized the design.
I’d seen the same pair before.
At a dinner in my home.
On a man Bruno had hated from the moment they met.
Julian Cross.
Vivienne’s former business partner.
May you like
And the man she swore she hadn’t spoken to in two years.
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